Taking Him Down. Meg Maguire

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ breath as silly, glittery excitement burst inside her like confetti.

      She had a second to register Rich’s haughty, blinding smile before he was swarmed by a dozen well-wishers and autograph-seeking kids, Lindsey’s view blocked. Thank goodness, too. The drinks had her feeling loose, and she could use a minute to pull herself together.

      Rich was a ridiculously good-looking man. Scary-sexy with his shirt off, and devastating in a suit. His gorgeous, masculine face, dark eyes and shoulder-length black hair had earned him his fight nickname. Broad shoulders and chest, slim waist, then those hips and that butt and those thighs and…ooh, tremble. His shape seemed made-up, like the heroes in those comic books Brett used to care so much about.

      Rich could’ve easily skewed toward being too perfect, except for that accent, peppered with swearwords and strong enough to strip the wax out of your ears. It all worked great as a swaggering ring persona, but his over-the-topness wasn’t an act, Lindsey didn’t think, and that was enough to keep smart girls from getting any reckless romantic notions about the man. Though it didn’t keep her body from wanting his.

      Lust object? Go for it. But she held herself back from slapping a few other labels on Rich. Rebound material? In your dreams, Tuttle.

      Still, as the crowd thinned and her view of him cleared, she felt her pulse race, hormones elbowing her better judgment aside.

      Six feet, three inches of good-sense-wrecking kryptonite.

      And if Lindsey were her own client, she wouldn’t be letting herself anywhere near Rich Estrada.

       2

      BUT INADVISABLE NEARNESS was exactly what Lindsey got only a moment later.

      Rich escaped the crowd, heading in her direction. He blinked in recognition and surprise, and blinded her with that lethal smile.

      “Look who it is.” Stopping in front of her, he slipped the suit jacket from his shoulders. The space was stuffy. He hadn’t worn a tie, but he undid an extra button on his dress shirt. “Almost didn’t recognize you outside that office.”

      “Hello, Mr. Champion. Well done.” She hazarded a clap on his arm then regretted it, now knowing exactly how hard that particular body part was. As if she needed another thing to fixate on.

      Rich shrugged, uncharacteristically humble. “Just a regional title. I’m still in the minors.”

      “For now.”

      He tossed his jacket on the radiator. “Thanks for coming. And for sticking around this long.”

      “Hey, free drinks.”

      Rich laughed.

      “It was fun. My pleasure.”

      He sighed, a tired, genuine noise, and took a seat beside her—though not quite as close as Lindsey would have preferred. She’d never seen him like this. So…accessible. Probably just exhausted. He flirted with her every chance he got, and not subtly. As though it was a sport, one he played with every woman he came across.

      He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, forearms flexing with tendons and making Lindsey’s brain glaze over.

      “You actually watch any, or was it too gory?”

      “Oh, no, I watched the whole thing.”

      “It’s an acquired taste.”

      “Then I just may have acquired it tonight.” Oops—was that a flirty smirk she’d felt pass her lips? Quit thinking so hard. He’s just the obnoxious, sexy guy from the gym downstairs. The one she’d developed an extremely troubling fascination with the past couple weeks. Probably some self-defeating relationship-sabotage crush. Naughty matchmaker.

      A server came through with a tray of champagne flutes.

      Rich snagged two, handing one to Lindsey.

      “Thanks. Cheers to your big win.”

      They clinked. His dark eyes held hers as he drank. Goddamn, she could fall into that stare and drown, grinning as the world went black.

      “How come your face isn’t all screwed up?” she blurted. Rich laughed, a deep and far too exciting noise.

      “No, really. Haven’t you ever had your nose broken?”

      “Sure. Twice. And what about all this?” He pointed to a couple scratches and the bandage, and the stitched gash nearly healed beside it. She’d dabbed concealer on that once—long story. Been close enough to smell his skin, as she could now. Tonight that scent tried to hide behind a hint of cologne, but she found it easily, breathed it in.

      She pulled herself together and waved dismissively. “Surface stuff. I get those shaving my legs. How come you’re not…You know.”

      “More like Merce?”

      Lindsey wouldn’t say Mercer was unattractive, but he looked, perfectly aptly, like a man who’d spent the past decade getting routinely punched in the face. Whereas Rich…

      “You’re too pretty,” Lindsey concluded. “Too symmetrical. And your ears aren’t hideous enough.”

      He smiled, looking away as though she’d actually managed to make this shameless man bashful. She took the opportunity to ogle his forearm again, and the way his dress shirt pulled taut against his locked biceps.

      Their eyes met once more. “You implying I’m doing my job wrong?” he asked between sips. “Seems like letting my face get scrambled as little as possible would be to my credit.”

      “Fair enough. Are you happy with how you did tonight?”

      “You actually wanna hear the long, incredibly boring answer to that?”

      “Sure.”

      “I’m happy I won,” Rich said, swirling his champagne so the foam rose. “And I know the way it happened will be great for lining up another match, to prove I didn’t just stumble into a title with a lucky punch. If Higgins and I ever wind up in the same pro organization, I’ll probably get a nice rematch, maybe even move up the card, if they spin this into some rivalry. But I would’ve liked a bit more of a tangle with that asshole.”

      Lindsey nursed her drink as he recounted the details, asking questions when she didn’t understand a term.

      He laughed after ten minutes’ conversational dominance. “You fake not being bored really well. Tell me to shut up anytime.”

      “I don’t mind. We are at a fight, after all.”

      “True.”

      “Are you what they call a technical fighter?” She’d heard the term someplace, and it now accounted for a healthy percentage of her meager MMA vocabulary.

      Rich shook his head. “Mercer’s a technical fighter. Means he can execute a kick or punch with, like, robotic precision. Me, I’m sloppier, but when I hit, no matter how busted it might be, I like it to land hard. Like, hard. Plus СКАЧАТЬ